


Something Decent

by keyrousse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyrousse/pseuds/keyrousse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week after Sherlock's funeral, Mycroft has a guest with request. Post-Reichenbach story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Request

**Author's Note:**

> Wonderful beta by jack63kids from ff.net.

Mycroft was tired. Sherlock had died over a week ago and now his brother was tired of concerned looks from his staff, tired of guilt, of sleeplessness. Doctor Watson was right: Mycroft was at least partly responsible for Sherlock's Fall. Fall from grace and his suicide.

The Yard was in big trouble as well. Sherlock had helped during so many cases that now everyone convicted had a great reason for an appeal. Fortunately, proof was always there, thoroughly catalogued before Sherlock got to the scene. He just pointed things out and interpreted them, there was no possibility of him planting anything, so a good prosecutor could keep criminals behind bars. Not to mention that Sherlock rarely appeared in police reports as "consultant". It didn't change the fact that Greg Lestrade's days as DI were numbered. He would fall with Sherlock.

"Dear God, what a mess," Mycroft sighed, looking out of his car's windows on his way home from work.  
"Sir?", his PA piped up, looking up from her mobile. He just dismissed her with short wave of his hand.  
He was so tired that he could barely stand when he finally got back to his house. He sent his PA to her home, bid her goodbye and went to the door.  
Everything felt colder and alien after his brother's death, even though Sherlock wasn't a frequent guest in this flat. His place wasn't "home" anymore, just a "house". His world seemed so empty. He still hadn't explained to his mother what happened to her younger son. Mummy knew Sherlock was dead, she didn't know why.

'I helped to kill him,' Mycroft thought. He still could see hatred in Doctor Watson's eyes. And Mycroft hated himself. And he knew that Sherlock would hate him too, if he was still alive and figured out how Moriarty got so much information on the detective.  
Well, if John knew, then Sherlock probably had, too. The detective probably had more important things to do before his Fall, than to spit venom at the very person who made it all possible.  
When Mycroft finally stepped inside his house, everything seemed normal. Just as clean and cold as he left it. But the further he went towards his living room, the more distinct was feeling of someone else's presence.

It didn't matter. It took some guts to hurt government official like Mycroft, so he felt safe, just slightly insulted.  
There he was, by the window, standing with his back towards Mycroft. The curtains were drawn. Tall, thin figure of a man, dressed in dark-blue jeans, black sweatshirt and running shoes, with short cropped dark hair. He held his hands together (slender, long fingers) behind his back, stood with his feet slightly apart. Figure of self-confidence and strength – not necessarily of body, but definitely of mind.  
"Who are you and what do you want?" Mycroft asked. The figure by the window didn't move.  
"I want you to do something decent for once, Mycroft," the figure replied.

Mycroft didn't blink. Didn't drop his briefcase or umbrella in shock. He just stared. He was sure he hadn't gone crazy, so the only possible explanation for why the man by the window spoke with his late brother's voice quickly came to his mind.  
"Who else knows you're alive, Sherlock?" he asked. "Who helped you with faking your death?"  
Sherlock turned, so Mycroft could see his face. The Younger Holmes looked tired and haggard, but he still had fire in his eyes. They shone with anger.  
"People who were actually trustworthy and not in immediate danger," Sherlock practically spat.  
"Not John," Mycroft guessed. Sherlock nodded. "Why?"

"There were snipers with guns trained at him, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. They'd shoot if they didn't see me fall," Sherlock explained, even though he clearly didn't want to. He came here with something to gain, not to explain. "They are still not safe, but you can do something about my and Lestrade's reputations”.

"Lestrade's?"

"You know his career is being destroyed because of what press is claiming about me. I want you to clear my name. You made it all possible, you fix it."  
"If only I knew how, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, stepping a little closer to his brother. He looked down, at the floor. "John figured it out. John knew how Moriarty got all the information about you. I was impressed. Well, I would have been, if the next thing I heard about you wasn't that you were dead."  
"He's not as dumb as everyone claims him to be," Sherlock said. He took a deep breath. "Police recovered my phone from St. Bart's rooftop. Make them listen to the last audio recording."

"What is it?" Mycroft asked. Another step closer to Sherlock.  
"My last conversation with Moriarty. Everything is there: how he broke into the Bank Of England, the Tower, the prison, how he created Brook and why I had to jump; and if you get one more step closer to me I swear I'll beat the living daylights out of you."  
The last two sentences blended together, spoken rapidly, but Mycroft heard the threat anyway.  
He froze. He didn't take Sherlock's words seriously, but he needed to understand where his aggression came from.  
"Sher..." he started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"You sold me," he spat. "You knew how dangerous Moriarty was, and you sold me to him, my life story, my reputation, for nothing."  
"It wasn't..."  
"Don't you dare," Sherlock said angrily, through clenched teeth. His grey-green eyes were burning. "No information you probably obtained was worth it. My whole life is gone just because Moriarty 'opened up' when you talked to him. Are you proud of yourself? What were you thinking? For God's sakes!"  
Sherlock turned away, burying his fingers in his weirdly short hair.  
Mycroft never saw his brother so angry. Sherlock usually was cold and composed, but now Mycroft was genuinely scared of him.

When Sherlock spoke again, he was calm again.  
"They are still in danger; John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. I want you to keep an eye on them. I want you to keep them safe. Do you understand? They're safe while I'm gone, but there's no guarantee..."  
Sherlock sighed. He didn't look at Mycroft.  
The elder Holmes watched his brother for a minute, then said quietly:

"I had this conversation with John, you know. About giving Moriarty perfect ammunition to destroy you. I said I was sorry. And I still am."  
For the first time in his life, Mycroft felt like crying. His brother was alive, yes, but hated him and had every reason to.  
"I promise I'll do everything to clear your name. I promise I'll protect your friends. I'll do everything to make this up to you. I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me. I know I won't forgive myself."  
Sherlock looked at him.

"I thought caring was not an advantage," he said quietly. Suddenly he looked lost.  
"You're my little and only brother," Mycroft said by way of an explanation. "I'm sorry I failed you, but I'll make sure that you'll have something to get back to when it's safe."  
Sherlock just nodded.  
He didn't move when Mycroft stepped closer to him, deposited his umbrella and briefcase on the floor and did the last thing Sherlock expected from him: he embraced him, held him close. Sherlock returned the gesture and they stood in the middle of Mycroft's living room in silence.

"If you need my help with anything, just call me," Mycroft whispered to his brother's ear after a few seconds, "I'm so glad you're alive."  
"Moriarty is still winning. He may be dead, but he is still getting his way. Get that phone, Mycroft, clear my name."  
"I will. I'll start today. Don't worry, brother. They all will be sorry for believing those lies."  
Sherlock stepped away, not looking at him.  
"I have to go," he whispered.

"I have your back, as people would say," Mycroft replied. His heart nearly broke: Sherlock not only looked lost, but sounded lost as well. Like he was five year old, lonely, sad child with no friends, no-one to turn to. All because of Mycroft. "Don't worry. Stay safe."  
He watched his brother leave.  
He picked up his phone and dialed a number.


	2. Recording

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: "Sherlock" belongs to BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and everyone else involved in its production. Arthur Conan Doyle probably included. I just borrowed most of the characters (only Kinney belongs to me ;) ), not for profit, I'm just playing with them. Includes pieces of dialogue taken from "The Reichenbach Fall", "Sherlock" eppie I don't obviously own rights to, I'm so sorry for that, don't sue me. *high pitched* Pleeeeaseee!
> 
> Also, this chapter was not beta-ed. I'm not a native speaker (sometimes I doubt I can even speak Polish). Pointing out mistakes in reviews is highly recommended. I KNOW you'll find something, despite the fact I've read it at least three times before publishing.

Everyone was there. Well, everyone important in this case. Chief Superintendent and the Yard's spokeswoman sat behind the table. Sergeants Donovan and Anderson, both looking curious, placed themselves close to the window. Greg Lestrade sat opposite his almost-former boss, looking tired; well, you can't get much rest on a forced vacation, can you. Even John Watson was present, standing by the wall, close to the door, with his arms crossed and an old cane propped against his right leg.

The last one to come into the conference room in NSY was a technician from IT Division. He sat near the Chief, plugged his laptop in and glanced at his boss.

Chief Superintendent handed him a plastic bag with a mobile phone in it.

"Doctor Watson, can you confirm that it's my brother's phone?", asked Mycroft, sitting at the top of the table. John limped closer to the table, took the bag.

Black iPhone 4, turned off, little scratches from careless handling. Nothing unusual, this could be anyone's phone. But this one had a small "From JW" engraved close to the Apple logo.

"Yes, it belonged to Sherlock. I had it engraved, here," he showed them small letters. He handed it back to the Chief and murmured "I've never thought I will use this engraving to identify his possession..."

"Mister Kinney," said the Chief, fishing the phone out of the bag. The IT technician took the mobile and plugged it to his laptop. The view from the laptop was displayed on the big screen behind the table. They saw that Kinney easily gained access to all the files on the phone's memory.

"He had it password-protected," John remembered, surprised.

"Not anymore. It must have been disabled," Kinney explained. "Okay, what do we got here. Cleared most of the text archive, the last one was sent at 6:47 AM, June 15th. Well...", Kinney trailed off.

On the screen was displayed Sherlock's invitation to St. Bart's rooftop. Sent to Moriarty. And the reply at 10:13 AM, the same day: "I'm waiting... JM".

"The number of this JM is the same as the number of the phone found by Brook's body," said Anderson.

"Of course it is, because James Moriarty and Richard Brook were one and the same person," John replied.

"John...", Sally started, but was cut off by "Shut up, all of you" from Lestrade. He obviously didn't care what people thought of him, he just spoke his thoughts out loud, not looking at anyone. Mycroft realised former DI had nothing to lose.

"Ooooh-kay..." they heard the hesitant voice of Kinney, trying to lighten the mood. "Here's audio file, dated June 15th, recorded around 10:25 AM," Kinney said. "Looks genuine."

"You mean?", asked Anderson.

"Wasn't tampered with," the technician explained. "Rec On, blah blah blah, Rec Off. Nothing more. It's the first time someone is actually listening to it."

They saw lines of code, which meant nothing to them, but a lot to Kinney. The IT technician assured them that the file really was an audio recording, not some kind of assembly. "And really," he added after another question of 'are you sure'-type. "I know whose phone was that, forgive me guys, but I hated Sherlock Holmes long before people started to claim he's a fraud. Not that I believe that, but..." Kinney stopped, when he saw the look from the Chief. "I mean, I have no reason to lie here. The date indicate the time shortly before he jumped off the roof. The file is real. Whatever it is, it's the truth and I won't be angry if you don't believe me and decide to have it tested by someone else. That's what I do, right? Discover the truth?"

"Mister Kinney, would you please play the file?"

John felt his heart-rate going higher, like strong pounding in his chest, something he thought he'd never feel again. Lestrade became slightly paler. Donovan and Anderson looked concerned. Only Mycroft remained icy-calm, he just clutched the handle of his umbrella stronger.

Hearing slightly muffled ('The phone was obviously in his pocket' - Kinney) "Staying alive" by Bee Gees was bit of a surprise, but then they heard 'well... here we are at last'. Voice recognition program with 100% certainty recognised it as belonging to Moriarty. They all listened to his voice, the voice of the insane man, who was winning, who was beating the only person who could get to him, explaining everything he did to destroy the great man. Few minutes later came 'Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach' said with Sherlock's calm, deep voice. "The case that made my name," he'd added. Sally gasped. John felt his eyes getting moist. He could see his late friend, the great man, great mind, standing there, on that rooftop, confronted with the maniac, with nowhere to go, no-one to turn to, with his reputation shattered to smallest of pieces, called a fraud, just because he was too clever for anyone to believe him, betrayed by someone close.

Lestrade was white as a ghost.

Mycroft shifted slightly when they heard the piece about "there was no key" and the willing participants in Break-ins of Century. He realised that Moriarty's net was wide, he had access to the biggest secrets of the nation. He mentally noted to check on the progress of investigations of those memorable three crimes.

When 'your friends will die if you don't' came out of speakers, the world of John and Lestrade broke apart.

Nobody noticed John sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.

They listened in silence. Listened to Moriarty's threat, to Sherlock asking for a moment of privacy, then shift in the situation, his laughter, his hope that there was a possibility for shooters to be called off. Everyone who knew him had no problem with imagining Sherlock at his coldest.

"I am you," he'd said to Moriarty, cold and composed again. "Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn."

John remembered initial Moriarty's threat: 'I will burn the heart out of you'. Yes, Sherlock was ready for that, John was sure. It was enough to remember Sherlock's face when he was about to deal with CIA operative who'd hurt Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock Holmes would burn for his friends without hesitation.

John has never been more proud.

"Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do," they heard Sherlock saying. "You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you. […] Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one SECOND that I am. One of them."

Sherlock was the angel of vengeance. Previously it was obvious that John was the one who'd kill anyone who tried to hurt Sherlock. They saw that Sherlock was capable of it too.

Then came Moriarty's "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out. Well, good luck with that."

And BLAM!

Gunshot.

Sherlock's panicked "No!" and then his gasping.

When he saw no other option.

A moment of silence...

The end of the recording.

They just sat there for a few minutes.

"What now?", someone asked. Maybe Sally. Maybe Kinney, who was as shaken as John and Lestrade.

"Moriarty was real," replied Mycroft. Beside Chief Superintendent, he was the only one still calm. On the surface, at least. "Sherlock was not a fraud. You have to admit it publicly. You have my permission to publish this recording. My brother was really a genius, who wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Except Moriarty," whispered Anderson.

"You surprised?", asked Lestrade with audible difficulty with forming words. He just learned he could have died that day if it wasn't for Sherlock's sacrifice. He had been listed as one of three friends of Sherlock Holmes, recognised as one by him and his enemies. He felt privileged, but even more crushed by the fact he had no-one to thank to for that anymore.

"He called me after that," John said, realising. He still sat on the floor. "Called me and admitted to being a fraud. He sounded so broken."

He sobbed quietly.

"Miss Barker," said the Chief to spokeswoman. "Prepare a press release and press conference. We have to get it published."

"Why do you actually care?", Lestrade asked, looking at his boss. Mycroft glanced at him, surprised by his impassive tone.

"It's not only about Holmes' reputation, which is not truly important to me, indeed, but yours and the Yard's as well," Chief replied, pretending not to notice the way Lestrade spoke.

"I'm sure it will force Miss Riley and the rest of the press to apologise," Mycroft said, standing up. "I hope my brother's reputation will be restored, if not fully, then in a large part. He most certainly deserves that."

Sally Donovan and Anderson were unable to look him in the face. John calmed down, but still sat on the floor. Only Lestrade looked slightly more composed. Former DI stood up.

"Thank you, Mister Holmes, for letting us hear it," he said. "Now I can leave happy. Or at least happier than before." He turned to Chief Superintendent. "My letter of resignation is already on your desk, Sir," he added, nodded to everyone else in the room, straightened up and left.

"What is he going to do?", Anderson asked, lost.

"Something else. Can't blame him," John replied, stood up. "Thank you, Mycroft. I hope one day I'll get that phone back."

"I'll make sure of that, if that's your wish," Mycroft said.

"It is. Goodbye."

John limped away.

"Well," Mycroft started. "If I don't see a suitable press release by the end of the day, I'll find other ways to clear my brother's name. It will accomplish much more, with more careers destroyed than it's absolutely necessary."

They heard the threat.

Outside Mycroft met Greg Lestrade smoking. He smiled and stepped closer to former Yarder.

"I thought you and Sherlock were together in this 'quitting smoking' thing," he said, meaning to sound lightly.

"There are so many things I don't care about...", Lestrade replied, smiling for a second.

"You cared about Sherlock."

"Yes, I did. I still do. And my career was gone the moment Sherlock's involvement in my cases became official to the Chief, so I would be out of Force anyway, sooner or later," he added, probably guessing that elder Holmes was going to ask him about his resignation. He shrugged.

"Have you ever believed that Sherlock was a fraud?"

"No. I knew him too well. These were the things I just had to do, you know, like have him arrested. There were only two people he was capable of hurting without hesitation: Moriarty and himself."

"Mr. Lestrade, if you ever feel bored in your PI job or whatever you're going to do now, just call me. I'm sure I will find some suitable place for you."

Lestrade inhaled some smoke and nodded.

"And maybe, one day, our world will be normal again," Mycroft murmured, walking towards his black car, waiting for him.

"You really believe that?", Lestrade shouted after him.

"I have every reason to," Mycroft replied, smiling. Lestrade's eyes widened.

One day... This was just the first step.


	3. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by jack63kids from ff.net, where this fic was published almost a year ago, in case it looks familiar to anyone. ;)

Punch punch punch, angry growl, adrenaline pounding in his ears, not allowing the body to finally collapse, he knew he had to practically half- or kill the man, because he was going to pass out and then everything would be for nothing, because the creature beneath him was going to kill him anyway.  
  
Punch punch punch, panting, silence, no more struggling from the man he was beating. He didn't even feel pain in his knuckles. His world became slightly more grey. He could barely breathe. _Over, it's over, he's unconscious, you can get on your feet and run away_.

Easier to think than actually do.  
  
He backed away from where he was kneeling and practically toppled over, to lay on his back and try to stay awake. He heard some commotion a few rooms away, but with his body slowly shutting down because of drugs in his system, he had no strength to get up and hide. And he cared less every passing second.  
  
Someone shouted "Clear!", he heard lots of heavy footsteps (five people, not soldiers, more likely security, army boots), then someone with very familiar, London middle class accent ordered to check on the bodies. Someone approached him, took his pulse.  
  
"This one's dead", he heard somewhere close by. Since he felt he was still alive, the comment must have referred to the man he'd just beaten. To death, apparently.  
  
"Sir?", started the one above him. "He's alive."  
  
He moved slightly.  
  
"And barely conscious," was added.  
  
"Christ...", hissed the leader with London accent. "Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the team leader.  
  
"Hello, Lestrade," he mouthed, tried to smile, then lost consciousness.

* * *

He felt himself being moved. Placed on something firm, like a stretcher trolley, then wheeled away. Then warmth. Safety, even. He haven't felt safe in a long time. It was a somewhat new experience for him.  
  
Someone was holding his hand.  
  
Is this what death feels like? Was he actually dying?  
  
He fell asleep again.

* * *

The next time he woke, he was able to open his eyes. He found himself in home-like, spacious, cozy room, on a double, simple, wooden bed, covered with warm, white cotton bedclothes. He was dressed in pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. It would be surprisingly normal if he hadn't felt the drip hooked to the crook of his left elbow and bandages around his knuckles, wrists, ankles and chest. He felt nicely detached from world, probably thanks to painkillers. Good thing he was actually able to think, so he had the right to be a little bit surprised when he saw Molly Hooper entering the room.  
  
"Hi!" she exclaimed when she saw him awake.  
  
"Where am I?" he asked. His voice was hoarse.  
  
"Some very secret place only your brother knows about," replied Molly, looking hesitant.  
  
"You don't know." That wasn't a question.  
  
"Not really," she smiled shyly. She handed him a glass of water and a straw. He sipped slowly, swallowed. God, it felt so good.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he asked.  
  
"I was told I'm the closest to fit the description of 'trusty with medical degree, but not John Watson'," she replied, visibly uncomfortable. "You weren't too badly hurt, so I wasn't able to do much more damage to you." She smiled again.  
  
"You look nice," he heard himself speaking. Where did that come from?  
Well, she did. And he missed familiar faces so much...  
  
"And you are stoned, ohmyGodI'msosorry!", she squeaked, but Sherlock tried to smile and probably failed.  
  
"I am," he admitted, shifting in his bed.  
  
"Well, then get some more sleep. You'll feel better soon."  
  
He replied her with short "mhm" and closed his eyes.  
  
He still felt safe.

* * *

He lay on his left side, with his left arm (still with the drip) outstretched. He felt a little bit stronger. Maybe he was being given something more than just painkillers, because he didn't believe bed rest would be that miraculous. He opened his eyes, saw the person sitting beside the bed reading the screen of his mobile phone, and sighed.  
  
"So I have a reunion with all of my friends, now?", he asked.  
  
"Just the two of us," replied Lestrade, not looking from his mobile. "John remains happily unaware."  
  
"Or I'm the lucky one. He'll probably shoot me," Sherlock said, closing his eyes.  
  
"Probably." He sounded neutral.  
  
Sherlock felt like he was being watched.  
  
"So, Molly Hooper knew from the beginning," started Greg. "Then you told Mycroft to clear your name. Then Mycroft hinted that 'our world would be normal again' and I started to wonder what he'd meant. Then he swore me to secrecy and sent me to the old warehouse, when I'd found you beaten up and drugged, on top of a guy clearly responsible for your state. I just want to know..."  
"The guy in the warehouse was the one supposed to shoot you the day I'd had to jump," Sherlock explained, not opening his eyes.  
  
"And you're bloody lucky he didn't kill you."  
  
Sherlock just nodded.  
  
He knew that. He would be dead if Moran hadn't left. He'd been in no state to fight them both, but his opponent had underestimated Sherlock's will to live. It was easy. After they had found and captured him, they'd hanged him by his tied wrists, but he had been able to touch the floor with his feet, also tied at the ankles. They'd beaten him and cracked at least two of his ribs, trying to force some information from him, unsuccessfully. Moran had left. His colleague had drugged him and turned away, staying close. That had been his mistake.  
  
Sherlock shuddered at the memory.  
He heard Greg putting away his phone and shifting towards him. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the familiar, healthy (rested: his life have been fairly easy and satisfying recently, despite finalised divorce, concerned face of the closest thing he'd had to a friend before he'd met John. He could see his reflection in big, brown eyes of the trustworthy, open-minded, now-former policeman. He remembered that look of concern from the old times, times that would never return. Sad times.

Being beaten and vulnerable made him more prone to emotions, but Sherlock somehow managed to avoid tearing up and admitting he missed Lestrade.

He cleared his throat.  
  
"Baker Street is still in danger," he said. "That's where I'll go when you let me get out of here."  
  
"Well, it won't happen for the next few days. You're barely able to stay awake and about fifteen kilos underweight, so your mission to save John and Mrs. Hudson will have to wait," Greg replied, still leaning towards him, with elbows on knees and hands held together. "Mycroft placed some of his security there, already."  
  
They watched each other for two minutes.  
  
"You're not alone with this, not anymore," Lestrade said. "Mycroft knows you're the one who has to take down the last shooter, but let us help you."  
  
"I need John for this," Sherlock whispered, lowering his eyes.

"I know. But we're still here, remember?"  
  
Sherlock lifted his gaze again. Lestrade's eyes were still warm, caring and friendly.  
  
"Lestrade, I...", Sherlock started, but Greg cut him off.  
  
"No need to say it. I know you," he smiled. "Give yourself a few days. We'll get you back to London."  
  
He stood up.  
  
"Get some more sleep, I'll look for something to eat. Everybody hates drips."  
  
He left the room.  
  
How come Sherlock realised how many friends he really had only shortly before his "death"?

* * *

The ride to London was long and quiet. Lestrade was driving. Sherlock and Molly were sitting at the back, shielded from the world and prying eyes with tinted windows. Sherlock stared into space somewhere behind the glass, Molly stared at him.  
  
"Sherlock...", started Molly. Sherlock practically jumped. "Pre-planning the whole event doesn't make your sacrifice less noble."  
  
"What?", he asked, turned towards her and narrowed his eyes.  
  
"You were worried about it, remember?" she tried to explain. Sherlock shot a glance towards Lestrade. Greg pretended not to notice or overhear. "You were prepared to record the whole conversation with Jim," she continued. "Asked me... You know... To...", she trailed off.  
  
"To help me fake my death," Sherlock helped. "I hoped I wouldn't have to resort to that," he added, again looking through the window.  
  
"I know that, but..."  
  
"Molly, don't believe in everything you can read in the papers," Sherlock said, not looking at her. "They will always doubt me after that Rich Brook case, no matter what we say. They may have believed in the recording, but the doubt will always linger somewhere under the surface. I'm used to this and I don't care."  
  
Lestrade stayed quiet. He knew what Sherlock and Molly were talking about. When the recording from Sherlock's phone was published, some papers pointed out that the detective was well prepared for clearing his name, therefore the fact he actually jumped in the end meant less. They all silently suspected that after Sherlock's return those voices would become louder. Sherlock pointed out he hated his 'fame' and was going to keep as low profile as possible.  
  
Greg reacted to Sherlock's return with great understanding. He was really friendly and supportive, and promised to provide a backup for Sherlock's meeting with Moran and even serve as a spokesman on various occasions, including inevitable meeting with Yarders. Sherlock wasn't worried about that. Now he was thinking about John. His Doctor was, on the surface, easy to read. He was nice, helpful, had a slightly wicked sense of humour, was one of the bravest persons Sherlock have ever met, accepted his flatmate with all his eccentricities and would never doubt him. On the other hand, he could be really unpredictable. Sherlock could expect a strong blow to the face as the first thing John would do after seeing him alive, at least, if not a plain attempt to strangle him. Therefore it was safer to see him at work, not in the Baker Street flat, where the ex-soldier has easy access to his gun and there would be no witnesses.  
  
Everything depended on how much John would hate him for making him believe he was dead for over a year.  
  
His time in hiding was ending, but life wasn't going to be much easier.  
  
When they reached London it was early afternoon, still working hours. Lestrade dropped Molly off at her flat (she could barely climb the stairs after receiving a short goodbye-and-thank-you kiss on the cheek from Sherlock) and started driving towards the neighbourhood of John's workplace. Sherlock was silent, but he noticed Lestrade's worried glances at him through the rearview mirror.  
  
"You ready for this?", Greg finally asked. He stopped in a quiet alley two streets away from John's clinic.  
  
"Not really," Sherlock admitted with an uncertain smile. He rubbed his hands. His knuckles were still bruised, faint traces of rope burns were still visible. He'd had a hard time and it wasn't over. He wasn't even sure whether he would survive that evening. Everything was planned, but his opponent was intelligent and wouldn't give up easily. He didn't want to kill anyone. John was the one used to killing. Sherlock felt sick every time he remembered the man he'd beaten to death in the warehouse. Self-defense, sure, but still it was a life taken from someone.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  
  
"Now or never," he murmured. He didn't see Lestrade's nod in agreement.  
  
"I'll be waiting for you on Baker Street, just as we planned. If anything changes, let me know."  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes.  
  
"Greg...", he started. Lestrade turned towards him. Sherlock again stared into those big, familiar, warm eyes. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome," Lestrade replied, seriously. "Now go. See you afterwards."  
  
Sherlock got out the car, pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and went towards the clinic.  
  
"Fingers crossed," Greg murmured to himself, watching him.  
  
He knew the plan and could imagine the title of new entry on John's blog, the name of the case he would probably describe.  
  
The Empty House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews, please?


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